Daisy Among Weeds
by KnittedSweater
Summary: "He loved her too much to tell her, and it hurt. It hurt like Voldemort's wand was stabbing his poor heart instead of cursing him dead. It hurt like Nagini was eating out his brain and a fire - a very painful one - was coursing through his veins, consuming every fiber of his being." Neville-centric. Neville/Luna. Cursing.


**here's a neville/luna fic that i wrote ages ago. tumblr says i wrote it three months ago, so okay.**

**omfg they're so cute. **

**oh yeah and those of you waiting for falling to be updated, don't worry that i posted this, i'm just in the mood to move some of my un-fanfiction-dot-net-published fics from tumblr to here. if you read it off of my tumblr already, cool!**

**warnings: CURSING, and ANGSTY LOVE AW NEVILLE YOU CUTIE PATOOTIE**

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**words: 888 words (i know crazy shit right)**

**disclaimer: i do not own harry potter**

**canon setting: can be set anywhere in half-blood prince (hp6) or maybe even in late order of the phoenix (hp5)**

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**Daisy Among Weds**

She's a fucking angel.

She has this innocent, yet all-knowing attitude that speaks annoyances laced with wisdom. She tells him things in childish riddles that really do mean a lot.

But it's not like he would say that to her face.

She's mysteriously clear. She's a walking ball of contradictions that makes him wanna tear his hair out. She's smart, but she's got everybody thinking that she's mental. She's childish, yet full of wisdom that he aspires to live by.

But that's not all he loves.

He loves how warm her heart is, even to a weak, average, simple person like him. He loves how gently meticulous she is, running and walking and spinning on her toes gracefully, like a ballerina out of costume, itching to get on stage. Fingers barely grazing the pages of the books she reads like it's a piece of cheap, childish, street chalk art she doesn't want to smear. Teeth nibbling softly on her bottom lip when she's thinking. He loves it. He loves it all.

He loves her.

He loves her nimble, tiny fingers, with horridly gnawed fingernails that make him want to kiss those knuckles and tell her that she doesn't have to worry anymore. He loves the stains of barefooted walks on her feet, the plumpness of her toes, and the calluses of those long journeys spent thinking. He wants to walk with her one day. He wants to walk with her and get to know more about her than he already does.

He loves her neck, only because she keeps it high in view. Her neck is always there, holding her head high, even when others are putting her down, calling her loony when she's perfectly alright (for his tastes, and he wants to be only for his tastes, she shouldn't have to change for anybody, she doesn't deserve that).

He loves her hair. Long, flowing, and perpetually unruly. It's in a natural lazy curl that results from genes and her nonchalance in the morning. It's not the springy and in-your-face-half-the-time Hermione hair he pities. It's beautiful and elegant and he can't help but love it's glimmering, sun-bleached, lemonade color. It frames her face like it was made to make her look irresistible(it's only logical).

He used to hate how she plagued his mind, how she got under his skin with kind words that weren't in the slightest condescending. But now he embraces it.

He embraces the girl they call Loony Lovegood because she embraces him, loves him, understands him.

The one they call Knockhead Longbottom.

Of course, the love isn't physical. He doubts it's even mutual, despite his thoughts. It just feels like he loves him, and it's hard to shake away that fantasy.

But he'd never say it to her face.

He's too shy. He's too shy, and she's a firework of who-the-fuck-cares. She doesn't care what anybody thinks, and bluntly states the most devastating things. And that's what he's afraid of the most, being bluntly shoved to the side after having his hopes up. Harry tells him to go for it, but it's a scary thought.  
It's driven Harry and Ron to the point of creating a petition on whether or not he should tell her, tell her that she's the most beautiful thing alive, inside and out, and he wouldn't mind spending the rest of his life with her. And it got signed. Inter-house. From Gryffindors to, surprisingly, a few sincere Slytherins. Six hundred forty-two people telling him to take the fucking shot.

Oh God, he wanted to take that shot.

But Luna was a pearl among granite, a daisy among weeds, dare he say it, a savior among downers. He loved her too much to tell her, and it hurt. It hurt like Voldemort's wand was stabbing his poor heart instead of cursing him dead. It hurt like Nagini was eating out his brain and a fire - a very painful one - was coursing though his veins, consuming every fiber of his being.

Everything she does makes him still with awe. It's not fair, he thinks. What she's doing to me, it's not fair.

And whenever he decides to tell her that he loves her like no other, she's always just herself. He always finds her looking like a fucking goddess without even trying and it hurts again. By the fire, reading a book. Toes making ripples in a pond in the Forbidden Forest, humming with the birds. Perched on a windowsill in the library, nose glued to the latest copy of the Quibbler, reading her father's articles. It hurts because she's so damn beautiful and he's an awkward, clumsy boy who can't help but love her the way he does. With that thought in mind, he just walks away, unless Luna's already by his side, with that angelic voice of hers barely talking above a whisper about nargles and wrackspurts and other things he doesn't know about.

And he knows one day, he'll have to man up and say it.


End file.
